


Open My Eyes

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone Has Issues, M/M, Model!AU, Romance, Thorin is a painter, Thranduil is a model, cuteness, evil oc is evil, i'm still slightly unsure as to where this is heading but prepare for insanity, is it love or is it fate or is it whatever, pretty slow build, the tags will grow as this fic grows idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:32:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil is a model who is frustrated with how people treat him. Thorin is a luckless (and currently homeless) painter who is looking for his Arkenstone, the thing, place, person or state of mind which will allow him to paint masterpieces. Maybe those two souls are meant to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. About Thranduil and Thorin

**Legolas about Thranduil**

Whenever people saw Legolas with his father they either asked him who his pretty girlfriend was or why he hadn’t told them he had a sibling. Of course that was now, with him being an adult. When he was younger, they mistook Thranduil for his ‘mommy’ or older sister. While Legolas always answered with a resigned “This is my father”, Thranduil was the one who grinned evilly at the faces people pulled when they really looked at him for the first time. He would make a funny remark then, wave the incident off, but Legolas knew that his father didn’t like being mistaken for a woman. He always prided himself with his beauty, of course, why else would he start a career as a model. But as Legolas got older, Thranduil would complain more openly how people only saw _that_ and not _him_. That people complimented him on his hair or his smooth skin, but not on his wit or intelligence. And Legolas knew how sharp his father was. He had seen him tear apart some critic with less effort than he put into brewing tea – and Thranduil made horrible tea.

Legolas remembered all this, and he made sure his friends remembered it too, especially Tauriel Woods, with whom he lead a medical practice. When Legolas had told his father that he wanted to become a physician, there had been a flicker of surprise in Thranduil’s blue eyes, before pride and admiration settled down and held themselves until this day. Whispered into the right ears the name Greenleaf opened doors, and it enabled not only Legolas to go freelance, but also his friend from university, Tauriel, whom he just dragged along with him. Thranduil had money and influence enough to get them everything they needed.

“I don’t need the money,” he had said and made a gesture as if he was throwing something over his shoulder.

Even though Thranduil had not been the best father there could be – and they both knew it – Legolas had always felt protected and supported. Sometimes he might have been gone for weeks, for some fashion week in Europe or a photo shooting in Asia, or wherever a contract took him, leaving him in the care of a nanny or a neighbour. But he always came back, and he never really felt like he was really gone, anyway. In some ways, Thranduil _was_ his older brother and not a parent.

 _And sometimes our roles are reversed_ , Legolas thought with a sigh, readjusted the straps of his backpack and knocked for what felt like the thousandth time on the door to his father’s apartment. He felt annoyed and a little bit angry, but since he had definitely received a message saying that Thranduil was back in New York, he was also a bit concerned. He knew what a toll work took on him, and it wouldn’t be the first time Thranduil forgot to eat more than a cracker for days and ended up unconscious on the floor because of it.

“Isn’t he answering?”

Legolas turned and smiled at Mr Brown, the elderly neighbour.

“I’m afraid not. And I still don’t have a spare key.”

“Ah,” Mr Brown held up a finger. “I can help with that. Let’s just hope he didn’t leave his key in the lock.”

“This is very kind of you,” Legolas said, as the older man waddled past him, key outstretched like a weapon. “I’ll bring you a cake next time I visit him.”

“Oh, no, no need for that, young man. Just give my regards to your father, I hope he’s alright. There we go.”

“Do you have reason to believe he is not?” Legolas hesitated, with his hand on the door knob.

“He did look a bit spooked when he arrived, but …” Mr Brown shrugged.

“Thank you.”

Legolas took a deep breath and entered the small, but cosy and bright apartment. There was no noise, the air was still, and the wooden floor groaned under Legolas’ shoes. There were two suitcases and a large bag, and a dark green coat thrown on the floor behind them. A bit further was a pair of shoes, carelessly discarded. The short trail lead to the couch, and as Legolas quietly approached it, he heard faint breathing. Two feet hung over the arm rest, and the rest of Thranduil’s body was curled into a tight, comfy ball. Legolas grinned and grabbed a woollen blanket, which he gently spread over his father.

He knew there would be nothing in the fridge, so he had brought a few things, so Thranduil could at least survive until he found the time and energy to go grocery shopping. Legolas pulled out a self-made loaf of bread, butter, milk, water, and a handful of apples. There would be some other things in the freezer as well – mostly frozen pizza or lasagne, he presumed. But Legolas knew that Thranduil would be hungry as soon as he woke up, so he cut a few slices from the bread and put them in the toaster. While the machine did its work, he started to brew some tea as well.

“Morning.”

Legolas turned and smiled, watching Thranduil stretching lazily.

“Welcome back. It’s past 5pm, by the way, and Mr Brown sends you his regards.”

Thranduil groaned and threw his legs over the back rest, hanging upside down on the couch.

“Damned jetlag.”

“I am making you a butter toast and tea,” Legolas said, turning back to said toast. He heard some shuffling behind him, so Thranduil was probably trying to get to his feet right now.

“You’re an angel … How did I ever deserve you?”

“You don’t, actually,” Legolas teased while smearing butter onto the toasted bread. He felt Thranduil stepping behind him, not touching him, not saying anything, but he knew, he _knew_ he was smiling.

 

* * *

 

**Dís about Thorin**

Dís was not surprised at finding a man sleeping on her couch after coming home from work. Fíli and Kíli, her boys, were home as well, and they stood around the couch like little birds inspecting something curious. They didn’t move when they noticed her, only flashed a quick grin and went back to staring at the man.

“He looks old,” she heard Kíli whisper.

“It’s the beard,” Fíli whispered back, an all-knowing, serious frown on his little face.

She set down her bags, filled with groceries, slipped off her shoes, hung her jacket and went to kiss her boys’ cheeks in greeting. The three of them stood there for a moment, looking down on the dirty, slightly reeking, bearded man that was her brother. She had wondered how long it would take him this time to admit his defeat and come to her for help. Again.

She crouched and took in the sight of Thorin. He looked weary and tired. There were wrinkles around his eyes and the beard was really, really ugly. His hair looked greasy and matted, and his clothes were mud stained and ripped open at some places. She had never seen Thorin this miserable before. And even though she knew Thorin hated it, she was glad he was here. Even though Thorin hated ‘obtruding’ her home and family, she would always be here to catch him whenever he fell. It was no strain on her, despite reminding her of how their mother had to suffer under their father’s falls. All those times he vanished without any sign or message. And came back with masterpieces, jewels caught on canvas, fireworks of paint. If Thorin needed the knowledge that Dís would be there to catch him in order to paint masterpieces, then she would be glad to do so, however long it took.

So far it hadn’t been enough, though. Thorin was still searching for his ‘Arkenstone’, the thing, person, place or state of mind that would enable him to paint life in its purest beauty. Dís was here, though; his home, his foundation, his safety net, his crutch, until he found his Arkenstone.

“Come on boys, we should let him sleep,” she whispered after some time and wound her arms around the boys’ small bodies, guiding them away from the couch and to the kitchen. They silently helped her unpack her groceries, putting them into the fridge, the freezer or the cupboards. They pretended they were ninjas, moving stealthily around the kitchen, making funny faces, and the boys were giggling under their breaths, when their mother hopped onto the counter and did a few moves. But they were silent enough that when they went back to the living room, they saw that Thorin was still lying on the sofa.

Dís sent the boys to go and play something in their room until she had prepared dinner, asking them to keep it down. They promised and rushed off, giggling and grinning.

“You can stop pretending you’re asleep,” she said then and sat on the armchair, facing the couch.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin murmured, looking at her with hooded, tired eyes. She just shook her head.

“You’re always welcome here, Thorin, and you know that.”

He sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position.

“I only need a few pieces of paper and a pencil, Dís. I was waiting for you, and the couch was too soft to resist.”

“Are you going to sell sketches again?”

“What else is there to do?” Thorin scratched his head and groaned. “God, I look terrible, don’t I?”

“I’m going to make dinner now,” she said and rose, “and afterwards you’ll take a shower and I’m going to cut your hair.”

“Thank you,” he said, but it sounded resigned. She stepped up to him and gently touched his cheek, until he looked at her.

“Don’t give up, Thorin. I believe in you.”

He bit his chapped lip and blinked away a few tears.

“You are so good to me. How can I ever repay you?”

“Find your Arkensone,” she answered and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. “And then paint.”

She knew that he still doubted himself, when she turned to go into the kitchen, but it had always been this way. After their parents passed away and Frerin died in that horrible accident, only Dís was left to believe in him, and she tried, she tried so hard, but she knew she wasn’t enough. She wasn’t Thorin’s Arkenstone. But she would be his substitute, until he found it.


	2. Children in the park & Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin hangs out in Central Park and does sketches. (Warning: swearwords and mention of sexual harassment.)

**“Children in the park”. Pencil drawing on copying paper – Central Park, noon**

**“Hands”. Pencil studies on copying paper – Central Park, noon**

Thorin sat on his piece of cardboard, which he had spread on the dewy grass. Another lump of cardboard was spread on his right knee, and on top of it was a blank paper. Thorin stared at it for a moment, and then blinked up into the sun. It was still chilly in the mornings and in the shadows, but here he felt the first warming sunrays sinking into his skin, and deeper into his bones, like liquid happiness. It was strange not to feel his long locks fall into his face – Dís cut his matted hair so it was now merely a few inches long. He had shaved himself, too, and he felt almost naked without the fuzzy beard. New York’s winters were harsh, especially for the homeless, and beards were much needed. But now spring was coming, and with the cold went the need for facial hair.

The pearling laughter of children tore Thorin from his daydreams, and when his gaze fell on a girl and a boy playing in the grass – they were hardly older than three years, with a sparkling curiosity in their eyes and a thoughtless clumsiness in their limbs – he felt his fingers tingle. Without looking at the paper under his hands he watched the children’s movements and started to draw.

It was strange, how he saw and didn’t see at the same time. Some painters did intense studies of the object they were sketching. Some specialised on quick sketches, perfectly fit for urban settings, moving people, animals and other dynamic scenes. But Thorin didn’t actually draw what he saw – he didn't even look at the paper he was drawing on, it was odd, even to him. When he shot a quick glance at his sketch, there were two children playing, but there was no park, no grass, no trees. There were shapes instead, bubbles and leaves and clouds and ribbons, swirling around the small bodies. For a split second Thorin ached for colour; his fingers itched for the rough wood of a brush, he craved the unique scratch of bristle on canvas – or even better, yes, watercolour, oil would be too heavy and intense for those lively children.

He watched as the boy chased the girl over the grass, and he could hear someone – probably the mother – shouting after them, when they were out of sight. With a frown of concentration Thorin turned to his sketch. He had no eraser, so the lines of his sketches were always fuzzy and thick, but he was content with the end result anyway. The children were playing on an island of clouds now, throwing petals and ribbons into the air and streaming tails of bubbles and leaves behind them. He carefully wrote a title – “Children in the park” – and the date in the bottom right corner of the paper and then tucked it away to his other finished drawings, safely stored in an envelope he’d bolstered up with cardboard. Thorin automatically prepared the next blank paper, but since there was nothing that caught his eye at the moment – he’d drawn the trees and view far too many times before – he leaned back and enjoyed the warm sunlight on his skin.

It wasn’t quiet of course, there were talking people, laughing kids, barking dogs and …

“… told you not to smoke when I’m around!”

“Ow … Bitch. What, just because you don’t smoke I have to give up on my one and only guilty pleasure?”

“One and only!” A disbelieving snort. “Fuck you, you’re not blowing smoke into my face, period. Stop whining.”

Thorin cracked one eye open and watched the pair that now occupied the bench closest to him, though he could only see their backs from where he sat. If he hadn’t heard their voices, he’d have sworn one of them was a woman – it was the long, luxurious blond hair – but no, they were actually two men. And the one with the long blond hair was just grinding a cigarette stub.

“Bastard,” the other one huffed.

“I love you too, my dear Haldir.”

Haldir sighed and rummaged in a paper bag.

“You know that you’re a diva, right?”

“Shut up. And now give me my coffee.”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re insufferable like this.”

“It’s the lack of caffeine in my system, dearest.”

“Jeez, take it already.”

“Thank you.” And after a few seconds: “Yuck, sugar! I got yours, you prick!”

Thorin felt slightly uncomfortable with eavesdropping on their friendly bickering, but his artistic eye had been captured by a short glance at the still unnamed man’s profile. He had only turned his head a little bit after receiving his coffee, in order to thank his friend, and it had been a very quick motion. Thorin almost hadn’t caught it. He couldn’t describe the stranger’s face if his life depended on it, but that quick glance had left a lasting impression of symmetry and beauty that made his fingers itch. It was almost painful how he was aching to _draw_ this man. If only he had a better view – but creeping into his line of sight could lead to various embarrassing situations, and he was too self-conscious to try anything.

“So how was Paris?”

“Goddamn exhausting and stressful, as always. I don’t think I had a proper meal or night of sleep during that whole time – and I still hadn’t recovered from London and Mailand. But you know how that is.”

There was a pause, both took a sip of coffee, and Thorin saw long, graceful hands. It took him only a few seconds to capture them on paper, and a fraction of the itch in his fingers eased into joy.

“I didn’t miss too much, then,” Haldir said.

“Oh, only the usual: puking chicks, blisters on your feet and back aches. Bría kicked Rondy in the balls. Galadriel finally married that Cele-dude. El tripped and sprained his ankle because Ro shoved him. And you?”

“Well, I can tell you about puking as well.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t have walked a straight line for a million dollars.” Haldir downed his coffee. “So, what are your plans for summer? Are you going to do Berlin?”

“To be honest, I didn’t plan so far yet. I never liked Berlin, and no one offered anything, so … I’d have to ask my agent if there is anything interesting. But we’ll all do New York, right? Home game! We’ve got to walk the runway here. I’d hate to sit on my ass while some half-baked bugger walks in my place, just a few blocks away.”

Haldir chuckled.

“You can always just flirt with Manzanares again – he’d lick your muddy boots if you just smiled at him.”

“That pervert, I’m never going to wear any of his creations _ever_ again.”

That was the moment when the conversation suddenly started to make sense to Thorin – at least the unnamed man had to be some sort of a model. That Haldir-guy probably was too.

“What do you mean? I thought you liked Manzanares.”

“Oh, you’ve got some nerve. That sleazy bastard _kissed_ me once and I swear it was so disgusting … He literally tried to choke me with his tongue and he … _touched_ me. Ugh. No, I’d rather let Lindir shave my head than having to see that asshole again.”

“Whoa, that fucker! I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”

There was a short pause, when Haldir dusted his coat off – Thorin hadn’t even noticed that he’d been eating a croissant. His eyes had been trained on Haldir’s friend the whole time, willing him to turn his head, but it never happened.

“By the way, I finally saw that photo shooting you did in November.”

“You did? And?” Haldir sat again.

“I thought it was terribly boring, you’re far too special to do something so ordinary.”

“I had to try it. And thanks for thinking I’m special.”

“Sure you are.”

Silence fell on their conversation again, so Thorin risked tearing his gaze off the two men in order to look at his sketch. To his utter surprise there was more than one, but each and every one showed the still unnamed stranger’s hands, holding the coffee cup, gesturing, absentmindedly tucking a stray strand of rich blond hair behind a delicate ear. Thorin stared at them for a few dizzy moments. He couldn’t believe he had drawn those. It couldn’t be, he didn’t remember drawing more than one sketch.

“… call you. Oh, and give my regards to Legolas.”

“Sure, I’ll tell him next time I see him.”

Thorin’s head jerked up. They were leaving? A sudden surge of panic flooded his head. He needed to see more of this mysterious man, he needed to draw more, he needed …

“And don’t forget to move your lazy ass.”

“Shut up, I’m not the fat one here.”

“You little shit, just you wait and see. I’ll beat you. I'm gonna get an invite before you.”

With his heart hammering he tucked the paper into his envelope and came to his feet. Haldir was already walking away, and Thorin’s breath hitched as the unnamed stranger turned, turned- … Oh, and his instincts had been right. He was prepared for it, he had expectations, but _oh_ , he was so much more beautiful than Thorin could have ever imagined. There were no words to describe him, he was simply _stunning_. He _had_ to draw him. There was no way Thorin could go on with life without having captured those features on paper or canvas. Yes, canvas! Rich, intense oil – gold and white and green and blue – the colours swirled in his head like a hurricane, a powerful tide that pulled his mind out onto the open sea.

The stranger’s pale blue eyes almost looked into his direction, and Thorin thought that he would have fallen like struck by a bullet had those eyes met his, but they didn’t and he still stood. For a short eternity his feet were rooted to the ground, but then some sort of instinct kicked in and he stepped onto the path, following the man without ostentation. He was a fast walker, though, and Thorin had to hurry to keep up with him.


	3. Moss green/Mud brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is being followed, and he doesn't know what to do.

**Moss green/Mud brown**

Thranduil knew he was being followed.

It was a silly thought, really – New York was a huge city, and millions of people lived here. He shouldn’t even have noticed the man among the crowd that surrounded them as soon as he left Central Park. But he did, and the man followed him. It took Thranduil a little while until he got a glimpse at him in a reflection of one of the large glass facades, clad in a much too large coat, torn jeans and heavy boots. He was clutching something to his chest, but before Thranduil could see it properly, he bumped into someone and he had to concentrate on his path again.

He reached the station where usually took the subway, and while he walked down the stairs he thought that his pursuer – damn, that sounded like one of those spy-movies – would certainly lose him, once he vanished in the madness of New York’s underground. He cursed his curiosity and waited for a few seconds, until he saw the man, standing a bit helpless and maybe even disappointed at the base of the stairs. Before he could catch Thranduil staring at him, Thranduil pulled out his phone, acting like he was texting someone, and then slowly began to walk, making sure the man could see and follow him. For a few seconds Thranduil thought about how stupid this was. Allowing a stranger to tail him? Was he mad? But there was _something_ , a gut feeling that told him he would rue this day forever, should he lose this man in the crowd. At first he thought the man was waiting for an opportunity to ambush him, but he always kept his distance. So why follow him? Why follow _him_?

There was no way he could check if the man was still behind him, but again, a feeling told him he was, and Thranduil thought about what to do next. The man had looked a bit like a homeless person, maybe he didn’t have enough money to use the underground. What if he couldn’t follow him anymore? Thranduil cursed silently, but there was no going back now. He entered the station and stood waiting on the platform.

Seconds passed, people flooded in, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Thranduil felt his heart beat in his throat – he’d lost him. Maybe this was as far as he wanted to go, maybe this was as far as he _could_ go, being homeless and all. No, he was making assumptions again, and that wouldn’t-… There! A mud brown coat, ruffled black hair and searching – blue? But not the same shade of blue as Thranduil’s, almost grey – eyes. Thranduil quickly averted his gaze, trying to look bored or at least indifferent, but he had to wipe his sweaty palms on this own – green, moss green – coat. Why was he nervous? This was stupid, typically him, getting into situations like this, what was he _thinking_?

The train rushed past him, roaring, wiping out his thoughts and picking up loose strands of hair, swirling them around like dry autumn leaves. He felt his breath quickening. This was a critical moment. If the man lost him – or he lost the man, he didn’t know the difference anymore – then there was no hope of ever knowing why he was following him. It would all remain a mystery. And that thought almost made him panic – breathe, Thranduil, breathe – he almost got pushed away by the crowd, but in the end he managed to get in, maybe with a few elbow-stabs and shoves more than usual.

In the confusion he had lost sight of the man, and when the train moved again, for a short second he was certain he’d lost him. But when he caught a glimpse of mud brown, just to his right, he almost laughed in relief.

Train noise rattled in his ears, shaking his trembling mind. Someone stabbed his elbow into his ribs and he rubbed the sore spot afterwards. Occasionally he questioned his decision to move to New York, but hey, it made his job so much easier, so in the end it had always been a reasonable choice. Even if it meant that he had to suffer crowds and just people in general.

With a sigh he peered through the gap between two bodies and studied his pursuer’s face. The man looked uncertain and slightly agitated. Maybe he was questioning his choices too, Thranduil mused. Whatever his reasons though, they had to be pretty convincing, because he didn’t budge and didn’t waver. It made Thranduil all the more curious.

When the cool female voice announced his station, Thranduil gently made his way towards one of the exits. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man preparing himself to do the same by tucking his package – a large, brown envelope – under his left arm and gently nudging a woman to the side, so he could walk past her.

As soon as he was out of the train, Thranduil realised that it was probably a bad idea to lead the man to his apartment. Damn, he should have thought about that earlier. He felt another surge of alarm flood over him, and nervously fingered his phone in the pocket of his coat. There were almost no options left, unless …

Thranduil stopped at the exit and turned around, immediately fixating his gaze on the man. He walked a few more steps until he looked up and caught Thranduil staring, which made him jerk to a halt.

“Why are you following me?”

The man’s eyes widened and he clutched his bundle tighter.

“I’m sorry, I-…”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t call the police right now,” Thranduil threatened and pulled out his phone.

“I-I was just …” He swallowed hard and blinked nervously. “I’m a painter,” he spluttered eventually.

“What?” Thranduil froze and stared incredulously.

“I’m a painter,” the man repeated, straightening himself. “I saw you, and … I don’t know … God, this sounds crazy … I want to paint you. I did some sketches, but I wanted to ask … for permission.”

“So you just followed me across half of Manhattan.” Thranduil shook his head. Maybe this man was schizophrenic or something. He didn’t look like a real threat though.

The man nodded hesitantly and then suddenly started to fumble at his package.

“What are you doing?” Thranduil asked alarmed, and held out his hand in a protective stance. Did he have a gun after all? No, he wouldn’t kill him, would he? He didn’t look like a murderer. Besides, there were cameras and people all around them.

“I did some sketches earlier, but I never caught your face,” the man said and held out a blessedly harmless piece of paper. When Thranduil didn’t move, he shook it a bit and cautiously took another step towards him like he was trying to approach a wild animal.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he asked, still not reaching out to take the paper. “And I still don’t understand why you followed me. Who are you anyway?”

“My name is Thorin Oakenshield and I’m a painter. I would like to paint you – with your permission.”

Thranduil blinked.

“Paint. _Me_.”

“Yes.” The man’s – Thorin’s – brow furrowed, and he lowered his arm shortly before stretching it out again.

“Why would I let you do that? I don’t know you, this could be a ruse, a kidnapping, a-…”

“ _My name_ ,” he cut him off, “is Thorin Oakenshield and I’m a painter. I’m currently homeless, as you can probably see, but sometimes I sleep at my sister’s. She has two boys, aged nine and eleven. My father and grandfather were painters, too, but they were more successful than me, because … because they had their Arkenstones.”

“Arken-what?”

“Arkenstone. It … enabled them to become true painters. And I’m … still searching for mine. I hoped that … Oh, this is stupid; why am I telling you this?” Thorin sighed and crammed the paper back into the envelope, all but scrunching it up. Thranduil didn’t know why, but the sound drove deep into his bones, making him shudder in something akin to agony.

“What did you hope?” he asked, his voice barely more than a small whisper.

“Nothing. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Have … Have a nice day.”

Thranduil stared after the man, who turned without looking at him and all but ran back the way they came. Something tore in Thranduil’s chest, and he felt his heart beat furiously in his throat.

“Wait!”

He clawed his way through a sudden wave of people – where did they all suddenly come from? – back to the station, but it felt like one of those nightmares, when you couldn’t stir from the spot, no matter how hard you tried. Somewhere he caught a glimpse of a mud brown coat, but when he stumbled onto the platform, the train’s door closed and all he could do was stare after it.

Cursing under his breath, Thranduil didn’t even remember how he got home. He placed his keys onto the kitchen counter and fell onto the couch with a tired groan. After a few moments he pulled off his shoes – which he threw under the coffee table – and coat – which he threw onto the armchair – before his uneasiness made him stand again. He considered calling Galadriel or Elrond, or any of his friends, or possibly even Legolas, but then he grabbed his laptop and sat on the couch again.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, still hesitant. He couldn’t just let his go, it would haunt him for days on end. This was the right thing to do … right?

Thranduil sighed and almost shut his laptop again, but then he typed _Thorin Oakenshield_ into the search engine and stared at the results it showed him. There were none exactly fitting this name, but there was a certain Thráin Oakenshield, who even had his own Wikipedia page. He clicked on it and read: _Thráin Oakenshield [‘θraɪn ‘oʊkənʃi:ld] (17 December 1943 – 23. October 2001) was a contemporary painter who is best known for his impressionist paintings of landscapes. He is considered a master of acrylic painting, and is famous for his panoramic painting of the Rocky Mountains, the “Rocky Mountains Panoramic View”._

Thranduil skipped the next part, where other names were mentioned: _From Thrór Oakenshield, his father, Oakenshield inherited a large sum of money, which he spent on his travels to faraway places all over the world, in order to get inspiration for his works. His wife, Nís, and their three children Thorin, Frerin and Dís, suffered under his absence, however, and even more so after Nís Oakenshield was diagnosed with lung cancer. She succumbed to her sickness in 1998, only weeks before her husband finished his undoubtedly greatest piece, the “Rocky Mountains Panoramic View”. Only two years later, Frerin Oakenshield died in a car accident. Those two events are very likely the main reasons for Thráin Oakenshield’s suicide in 2001._

Thranduil let out a hissing breath and blinked a few times before reading on: _Despite the Oakenshield family’s wealth, Thráin Oakenshield’s remaining two children struggled with law suits and debts after their father’s death, which left them with little to nothing of the inheritance. His son, Thorin Oakenshield, unsuccessfully tried to follow in his footsteps, yet never managed to convince critics with his work, despite several exhibitions in Berlin, Paris and New York._

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Thranduil tried to process what he had just read. Firstly, if that man really was Thorin Oakenshield (and it looked like it), then he had told him (a complete stranger) the truth. Secondly … Why the hell did he want to paint him? This mystery was only getting bigger and bigger, and knowing his own curiosity, Thranduil wasn’t going to get any sleep until the mystery was solved. And that meant he would have to find Thorin Oakenshield.

He went to an online directory and typed in the name, only to remember that the man was homeless. Naturally, his name wouldn’t appear. He groaned and rubbed his face in frustration, until he remembered that he had a sister, whom he even mentioned during their encounter … What was her name again? Ah, Dís Oakenshield. Her name would certainly appear, it was quite unique after al-… _No entries_? Thranduil blinked in confusion. Maybe she had married and adopted her husband’s name? Thorin mentioned children, after all.

Another quick search provided him with the information that Dís Oakenshield had indeed married, namely a certain Nórin Durin – which meant that Dís Oakenshield was now Dís Durin. And indeed, the Durin family lived in Kingsbridge, Bronx.

A small smile had crept onto Thranduil’s lips, though he remained unaware of it until he’d brewed his tea – it was horrible, he should have asked Legolas to brew a whole pot for him – and noticed the strange tilt of his mouth after his first sip.


	4. Arkenstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin goes abstract. And realises things.

**“Arkenstone”. Pencil sketch on copying paper – Dís’ apartment, evening**

Thorin was trembling. Well, he wasn’t really trembling, his hands were as precise as ever, but there was a tremor, a flutter in his stomach, like he was on the brink of falling unconscious. It wasn’t vertigo, and it wasn’t nausea either. It was deep and utter terror.

How could he have been so stupid, he’d followed the man through half of Manhattan, only to walk away from him after a short conversation – if you could even call their exchange that. He didn’t know his name, he didn’t know where he lived or anything else through which he could contact him. And it made Thorin _sick_.

He took a deep breath and gripped his pencil tighter, before letting his gaze sweep over the familiar layout of Dís’ apartment. Neither she nor the boys were home, but he always kept a spare key in his envelope, in case he needed shelter. Or just the comfort of a home, even if it wasn’t his. And right now he would have given everything for one of his sister’s famous bear-hugs.

Thorin didn’t know why he was feeling like this. Sure, the man had been beautiful, with his long, elegant limbs and stunning, bright blue eyes. When he’d finally had the opportunity to see his face in more proximity, its clear symmetry had irrevocably burned itself into Thorin’s mind. But even though he’d afterwards tried to sketch him, _something_ was missing, and he threw the drawings away, disgusted by their insufficiency. It frustrated him so much, his mind was buzzing with built-up energy, blocking his sight with which he usually perceived things, and it prevented him from drawing anything.

Or, well, it prevented him from drawing things he saw right now. Feeling an idea humming in his fingers, he grabbed a paper. Maybe it was time for some chaos? It had been some time since he’d done more abstract things. He’d about kill for a piece of charcoal right now, but the pencil had to suffice.

He started with a random set of lines to calm himself and added a sweeping ribbon-like symbol that remotely resembled a tree trunk with wild, interwoven roots tangled at the bottom of the page. A thought shot through his mind and colours flashed, but he had to suppress those images. He didn’t have watercolours, so black and grey had to suffice.

It was like switching something in his brain off. Maybe meditation felt a bit like this. His thoughts slowly calmed and fell to the bottom of his mind like feathers, until there was nothing more than the scraping sound of his pencil on the paper, and somewhere also his breathing and heartbeat. He was alone, and he was at peace. It was a cold but beautiful feeling. He felt like a shell, a medium through which ideas, images and impressions seeped. They were being filtered by his artistic mind and eventually poured onto the paper like his very blood.

After some time he realised that his eyes were closed, but this didn’t keep him back, actually it rather encouraged him to be wilder in his movements.

Thorin soon lost himself in the images swirling in his head. Even though there were no colours – only black and white and all those beautiful hues in between, glittering coal and clouds and wolf-fur – there was a whole flood of symbols. Shards, ribbons, ropes, bubbles and loops. Textures far more vivid than anything he’d ever seen. Sand-rubble, foxtail, velour, veined leaves, wetted silk and-and-and-… Thorin searched, tried to grasp one simple texture that was so vivid in his mind, soft and flowing, living and lush; he desperately hunted for it, almost feeling it slip through his fingers, more gentle than sand, and more solid than water, something perfect merged from both.

Hair! It was hair, but Thorin was so far gone into his imagination that he didn’t realise where he’d seen it, who it belonged to and what it meant to him. He combed it with his pencil, weaving oceans of pearls into it, spreading it over bands of shining metal and twisting it around columns of delicate coral structure. Shapes and forms complemented each other perfectly into something grander, more divine than their own simplicity.

When Thorin’s pencil came to a halt – without so much as a conscious thought or order – he hesitated for long seconds. It had been a very long time since he’d experienced a rush of images like this, and he feared its outcome. The last time … He didn’t like to think about it. There had been … _consequences_. But whatever he had just created, he felt its glow through his whole arm, spreading and piercing through his chest into his heart, or where his soul might sit. It was a heavenly feeling, one he’d given up on feeling for long, long years. The last time he’d given into the flood of images, he didn’t experience this security, this certainty of … success? It might as well be. He just knew this drawing was as perfect as his means allowed.

He took a deep breath and shifted his grip on his pencil. Now or never. He had to see it, before he got his hopes up. And when he finally opened his eyes, blue eyes like cloudless skies stared back at him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, of course, because there was no blue, only gentle grey. But those were the stranger’s eyes, hidden behind shapes and lines as they might be, it was _his_ gaze. The skin over his cheekbones glittered like glass shards and cracked open like bark to reveal rippling texture like grasslands and treetops. And the hair spread like sunrays framed his delicate yet sharp face in gentle waves.

Thorin blinked, confused, before he realised that his sight was blurring because of the tears in his eyes. Tears of joy, mostly, but of anger too. Because he understood now that the man he’d seen in Central Park and followed across Manhattan – only to turn his back on him in embarrassment – was his Arkenstone. And he’d lost him in the anonymous ocean of nameless faces like a jewel in the depths of a bottomless well.


	5. Ginger/Mahogany brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil finds out about Gimli. And he meets someone. Again.

**Ginger/Mahogany brown**

Thranduil woke with a pinch in his neck and his right leg numb, both stemming from his rather uncomfortable position, curled up on the sofa, half sitting. He groaned and blinked his eyes open. Well, Hallelujah, it seemed like he’d slept through the night like this, because the sun was peeking in through the curtains. It wasn’t like his job already killed his back, no, he had to make it worse by sleeping on the couch.

“Father?”

He groaned again and rubbed his sleep-dry eyes.

“Legolas?” he called hoarsely and rolled onto his back, barely catching his laptop before it could slip off his lap and fall onto the floor.

“Look at me.”

Thranduil blinked again and tried to focus on his son’s face, barely a few inches from his.

“Goddamn, don’t lean over me like that,” he protested weakly.

“Oh good, you’re not drunk. I was actually surprised to see you passed out on the sofa without any bottles of Champaign around,” Legolas said cheerfully and patted his head. Sometimes Thranduil sincerely doubted that Legolas knew he was _his_ son and not the other way around.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Both,” he grunted and sat, rubbing his prickling leg. “You know I can’t make a decent cup of tea. And you also know I’m not a real person before I had my morning coffee.”

“Figured.” Legolas started whistling a random tune and started the coffee machine. “I saw you restocked the kitchen.”

“Mmmh …”

“Well, that’s good. You won’t be starving then. Oh, come, come, don’t be shy. Bring that over to him, will you?”

Thranduil’s head jerked up at the last bit and he blinked frantically, trying to figure out who Legolas was talking to. Because it sure wasn’t himself, and _holy fuck_ there was a stranger in his kitchen. Oh no, he was coming over and …

“Your coffee, sir.”

He squinted his eyes and stared at the young man’s bearded face. Who had beards nowadays? And he was ginger, too. It looked simply ridiculous.

“Father, this is Gimli, he works with me. Gimli, this is my father,” Legolas shouted from the kitchen.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Gimli grumbled –it didn’t sound like he meant it – and held out the coffee cup. Suspiciously raising his eyebrows, Thranduil took the cup.

“I’m not sure if it is,” he replied then, sipped at the hot liquid and made an appreciative noise. “But coffee is always a good peace-offering.”

Legolas appeared behind the Gimli-guy and grinned.

“Yup, he’s always like that.”

“Were you talking to me or to him?” Thranduil asked after another sip.

“Both of course.”

“Cheeky boy,” Thranduil growled and emptied his cup, but his loving smile was obvious enough.

“Tea?” Legolas stretched out the tea pot.

“Yes please.”

Thranduil watched his son and his friend over the rim of his cup and immediately noticed that they seemed oddly familiar with each other; they sat on the couch opposite of him with their knees almost touching, but didn’t seem too self-conscious about it. Also, Gimli was very obviously wary in Thrandui’s presence, but Legolas’ company seemed to overweigh this minor dislike. But no matter how hung-over or jetlagged Thranduil was, he would have remembered hearing his own son talk to him about a new employee in his practice – he would remember Legolas talking about a new friend. One might call it a father’s instinct, but knowing his own – missing – knack in fatherhood it had to be something else.

“You’re staring,” Legolas asserted after a while and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Well …” Mimicking his son’s facial expression, he let his gaze flicker between him and Gimli. “I’m confused. You know I’m rarely confused about people.”

At this, the image of a certain man came to mind. Blue eyes, black hair, a worn coat, a brown envelope and crumpled paper. _Thorin_. He had misjudged _him_.

Legolas sighed and met Gimli’s gaze for a moment, as if they were mind-talking. Thranduil didn’t like people who mind-talked with his son. Or, well, he liked Tauriel, but he didn’t like when she did _it_.

“Father, I told you, Gimli is a friend. He works in the practice.”

“He’s not a doctor,” Thranduil said matter-of-factly.

“I’m Legolas’ and Dr. Woods’ assistant. I handle th-…”

Thranduil’s stare silenced Gimli immediately.

“Legolas,” he said tonelessly. “You called him _Legolas_. And you called Tauriel _Dr. Woods_.”

He watched as both men paled minutely, and that was when he felt his own blood withdraw from his head. He put two and two together – for heaven’s sake, almost literally – and realised …

“You’re a couple.”

After cold realisation came shock – how could he not know, how could he have missed something as crucial as this – and then came embarrassment and eventually resignation and maybe – only maybe; remember, bad dad, he didn’t do responsible – a tinge of happiness for his son. He didn’t know how much of his internal struggle showed on his face, but judging after Legolas’ and Gimli’s dreadful, stony faces he’d say not much. So he set his jaw and jutted a finger at the ginger, bearded P.A.

“You,” he said coldly. “Be glad I wasn’t sipping my tea, or I’d be in need of medical assistance. And you,” this time the finger pointed at Legolas, “be glad I’m too stunned to be reprimanding you for not telling me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fat-…”

“Don’t ‘ _father’_ me,” he interrupted Legolas in an imperial tone and stood. “Both of you, up, on your feet. Now.”

The two men – boyfriends for crying out loud – exchanged wary glances, but did as they were asked to. When Thranduil came at them around the tea table, they looked thoroughly shaken.

“Hold still,” Thranduil said, put down his tea cup and pulled them both into a bone-crushing hug.

“Ow,” Legolas protested, but the huff that followed the exclamation sounded positively amused.

Thranduil pulled back a little and stared at Gimli.

“Consider yourself warned. Should you only so much as think about hurting my boy you will learn about real pain.” He leaned into the shorter man’s face. “ _Fear me_.”

“Okay, father, that’s enough, leave him be!” Legolas laughed, but Gimli solemnly nodded.

“I would never hurt Legolas, sir,” he said, and Thranduil let them go, satisfied.

“You shouldn’t have worried though, father,” his son said and shyly wound his arm around Gimli’s. “We came here exactly to tell you about us.”

“But it wouldn’t have been so efficient for my part,” Thranduil disagreed and subtly-not-so-subtly did the unofficially global sign of ‘I’m watching you’ to Gimli. Then he snapped out of his serious demeanour and bowed elegantly with a flourish. “Now, as our business has been attended to I would ask you to leave now – I have things to do.”

“And what might that be?” Legolas asked suspiciously.

“Stuff,” Thranduil simply stated and shooed them out. Or tried to. Because Legolas refused to budge once they left the living room, not even when being poked into his ribs.

“Are you overworking yourself again? It’s only been two days since you came back from Paris – I doubt you know what time it is and you probably haven’t eaten in at least 24 hours. You shouldn’t let yourself be bullied into jobs,” Legolas said with a hint of worry.

“I’m not working, but shouldn’t you two be working? Helping people and stuff?”

“It’s our lunch break,” Gimli deadpanned.

“What? What time is it?”

“Half past twelve,” the P.A. offered politely.

“Fuck.” Thranduil turned his back on them and rushed back to the couch, where his laptop lay. After continuously pressing a few buttons he realised that the battery probably ran out some time during the night. “Legolas, have you seen the charger for my laptop?”

“No. Why, is it important?”

“Yes!” Because of course he’d fallen asleep after finding out Dís Durin’s address, and never got to the point where he wrote it on a piece of paper. On the other hand, maybe this was some sort of a divine intervention. A sign not to pursue this matter. Dammit, no, he had to find Thorin Oakenshield, and if it meant to canvas a metropolis for a homeless person. The ‘why’ didn’t exactly matter. This was instinct, a very illogical drive that drove him insane, like an itch somewhere you couldn’t reach.

“I need your smartphone,” he sighed eventually and stretched his hand out to Legolas, who frowned, but gave it to him. Thrandui quickly searched for Dís Durin’s address and grabbed a slip of paper, on which he wrote the address, before handing the phone back to his son. “Thanks. I’ll be heading out with you in a sec.”

Scurrying around the apartment he grabbed a fresh long-armed t-shirt (dark blue), threw a black waistcoat on top, changed his socks – he figured the black skinny jeans were still okay – and quickly brushed through his hair, but it had that silky quality that kind of prevented it from tangling too much.

“Good to go,” he said, slipped into his comfy green coat and custom-made shoes, grabbed his keys and the note with Dís Durin’s address. He saw Legolas eyeing the slip of paper suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything, which Thranduil was strangely grateful for. He hated lying to his son – and he sort of didn’t want to tell him about Thorin Oakenshield quite yet. For whatever reason.

* * *

 

The door to Dís Durin’s apartment was painted with a flaking blue paint. Thranduil’s hands itched, wanting to peel it off the door completely, while he gathered his courage to ring the bell or knock. He hadn’t decided which one to do yet. Why was he even here? Ah, yes, Thorin Oakenshield. The mystery. The pursuer who turned away. The homeless painter. Damn his curiosity.

With one deep breath he reached for the doorbell and pushed the slightly sticky button. He wiped his fingers on his coat, cringing inwardly. Well, the Bronx clearly wasn’t Manhattan. There was a clanking noise before the door opened minutely, held by a metal chain. A pair of innocent blue eyes looked up at him from under a mop of brown, unruly hair. A child, Thranduil realised.

“Hi,” the child said.

“Oh, hi. Um … Is your mommy home?”

“Yeeess.” The blue eyes blinked.

“Can … Can I talk to her?”

A different voice called out from behind the child, a woman’s voice: “Kíli, I told you not to open the door to strangers. Who is it?”

“A man. He wants to talk to you,” Kíli said and half-turned away from the door. Thranduil – secretly pleased the child had recognised him as a man and not as a woman; a common mistake – heard footsteps, the metal chain was unhooked and he was faced with a sturdily built, small woman with hair as unruly as the child’s. He couldn’t help but notice its reddish mahogany brown colour.

“Can I help you?” she asked, curtly, politely, but with a hint of impatience. Kíli peeked around her broad frame and blinked at him.

“I hope so,” he said with a smile. “My name is Thranduil Greenleaf. Are you Dís Durin?”

She only scowled and pointed at the name tag under the doorbell with her free hand, which of course said “D. Durin”. The other one gently and perhaps absentmindedly petted the boy’s hair.

“Well … Good. Ah … Is Thorin Oakenshield you brother?”

“Why are you asking?” The impatience in her voice grew minutely.

“He approached me yesterday, and … kind of walked away before we finished our conversation. I understand that he sometimes visits you. If it is no bother to you I would like to leave my name and address with you.”

Dís’ eyebrows rose and she took his appearance in.

“Huh. So you’re the guy he was talking about.” Then, suddenly, a very genuine looking smile lit up her face and she made an inviting gesture. “Come on in, this isn’t hallway talk.”

“Thank you.” He followed her into the flat and brushed past a big-eyed Kíli, whose patting footsteps followed him into a small living room, where they were swallowed by a thick rug. The whole apartment seemed to be rather small, but it looked cosy and warm, with soft-looking couches, cushions and old, wooden furniture. Kíli retreated into what seemed to be his room, closing the door behind him.

“Would you like some coffee? Or tea?” Dís asked.

“No thanks, I just had some.”

“Well, then.” She crossed her arms. “Thorin was here yesterday and told me about you or I wouldn’t have let you in.”

“How fortunate,” Thranduil said and smiled uncertainly.

“You seem to be a very fortunate man.” Dís gave him a calculating look, before she walked past him and knocked on a door. “Thorin? Come out, there is someone here to see you.”

Oh. So he was still here. Well, that would speed things up.

He heard a few muffled curses, banging and splashing, and then the door was forcefully thrown open, revealing the tall man, dripping with water and naked except for a towel wrapped around his hips. His eyes immediately fell on Thranduil, and they held each other’s gaze, blue on blue. He felt his cheeks warm up.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Thorin grumbled and shot his sister an annoyed look.

Thranduil cleared his throat and fiddled with the seam of his coat, unsure what to do or say, now that he was faced with Thorin again – half naked on top of that. He stubbornly refused to look anywhere except his azure eyes. No, he didn’t sneak any glances to the broad, muscled chest or the … No, no, just the eyes. Eyes were safe.

“Maybe you should dress first,” Dís suggested gently after a while.

“Yeah … I’ll just …” Thorin retreated back into the bathroom and closed the door, and Thranduil couldn’t keep back a relieved sigh.

“Moron,” Dís said affectionately, but apparently not low enough, because Thorin shot a laughing “Witch!” back through the bathroom door. A minute or two later he emerged again, this time wearing trousers and a shirt, which he was about to button up.

“Sorry about that,” he said and approached Thranduil, holding out a hand to shake. He carefully took it and squeezed a little, trying to ignore the slightly calloused fingertips brushing against his wrist.

“No problem. My name is Thranduil. Thranduil Greenleaf.”

“Oh. Nice to properly meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“So …” Thorin put his hands on his hips. “I’d still like to paint you. I assume that’s why you’re here?”

“I was curious, yes.” Which was the safest answer he could think of. Others went along the line of _I had to solve the mystery_ or _I can’t explain it, but I had to find you_.

“I’ll let you two to it then,” Dís murmured.

“Would you agree to sitting for me then?” Thorin asked, as soon as she left the room.

“I’d certainly like to try, yes. Though I can’t imagine I’m … qualified.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to do much,” Thorin assured with a small smile. “Though if you imagine sitting like in the movies – having to be still for hours and hours – I can tell you that my technique vastly differs from that. I’ll just need you to be in the same room as me, but otherwise you’re free to do whatever you like.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened and he made a surprised sound. He hadn’t actually put much thought into what would happen once he found Thorin, but he was glad it was so … easy. It was like they already connected on a certain level. It appeased his worries and emphasised that his was – somehow – the right thing to do.

“How do we do this, then?” he asked. “Where, when, and such.”

“I’ll need some more time to gather the utensils I need … Sold them after I lost my last job,” Thorin admitted a bit sheepishly. “And well, I don’t know if my sister would allow us to work here, but …”

“We can use my place,” Thranduil offered. “I have enough room, and I live alone. We wouldn’t disturb anyone.”

“Oh, that sounds … perfect.”

Thranduil patted his pockets, searching for pen and paper, but Thorin stretched both out to him before he could ask.

“A painter always has a pencil and a paper with him,” he explained.

“Thanks. Very useful.”

They both laughed a bit while Thranduil wrote his name (always a source of confusion, especially his first name), address and phone number on the paper. When he handed it back to Thorin, he blinked at it a few times.

“We were almost there yesterday, when …”

“Yeah.” Thranduil grinned, slightly embarrassed at the memory. “I figured it wouldn’t be too intelligent to lead a stranger directly to my home, but that realisation came a bit late.”

Thorin chuckled and nodded.

“Good. Um, as I said, I’ll probably need a few days. Is it okay if I just call you when I’m prepared? We can figure out time and date for the first session then.”

“Seems good to me,” Thranduil agreed happily and smiled at Thorin, finding a similar joy in the other pair of blue eyes.

Afterwards, Thranduil couldn’t quite remember how exactly they parted, it was all a strange haze, blurred by awkward laughter – at some point Dís returned and he kissed her cheek in goodbye. Kíli came out of his room, too, hugging his hips and burying his face in his green cloak as if he was his favourite uncle or something. When the flaked blue door closed behind him, Thranduil felt like leaving a fairytale world and stepping back into real life. How strange.


	6. Colour studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: Chinese takeaway & Blushing galore.

**“Colour studies”. Watercolours – Thranduil’s apartment, early afternoon**

The improbable had happened and Thorin had found his Arkenstone. He still couldn’t quite believe his luck. Sometimes he stopped at whatever he was doing at the moment and repeated the thought in his head until a stupid grin threatened to split his face in two.

When Thranduil had left Dís’ apartment, they both spent the rest of the day celebrating the occasion. Dís patiently listened to his rants about what he intended to paint – there were thousands of ideas, blossoming in his head like dandelions in spring, and each of them birthed other ideas, sailing through the air like little idea-carrying parachutes that took root somewhere and grew more dandelions. He let the name – _Thranduil_ – roll over his tongue until it sounded strange and they both started giggling like drunkards.

It had only been three days, but those three days felt like eternity and at the same time like the blink of an eye. Eternity, because he couldn’t wait to paint Thranduil. The blink of an eye, because the days flew past in a haze of giddiness and anticipation. He had his Arkenstone. He knew where he was, he met him twice and Thorin already felt how the thought of him inspired him. He felt capable of moving mountains.

A set of watercolours had to suffice for now. Of course he could have loaned money from Dís, but he hated doing that. He could also have accessed their family fund, but it always felt strange using it. They both hadn’t touched it since they paid their father’s debts. It had always been their idea to eventually use it for Fíli’s and Kíli’s education, and so far that was the only thing they used the family money for.

After he acquired the watercolours, paper and pencils, he waited another day, which he spent practicing on the sketches he’d already done from memory. Only then did he gather his courage and called Thranduil from Dís phone. They agreed on meeting after lunch of the next day.

Now Thorin stood in front of the door to Thranduil’s apartment, clutching the paper bag with his tools to his chest. The door opened, revealing Thranduil in casual wear, holding a box with takeaway.

“Hi … Sorry, still eating” he mumbled and patted his belly.

“Hi,” Thorin replied and stepped in. He immediately took in the creamy light that filled the apartment with golden hues. It fit Thranduil’s spirit, he thought. He could work with this.

“Are you hungry?”

Thorin turned and followed Thranduil with his eyes as he walked into the adjourning kitchen, shovelling what looked like rice and vegetables or something similar into his mouth.

“Um, I can always eat,” he said hesitantly.

“Good. I ordered a bit too much for myself – and that means something, because I can eat _a lot_. At least I can and do once I remember to eat.”

“How do you stay so slim then?” Thorin asked, set his paper bag onto the floor and accepted a box with sweet-and-sour pork and rice, and a pair of chopsticks. He clumsily gripped them and took a bite.

“Yeah, well, you’re right, judging after the amount of food and alcohol I consume I should weigh 300 pounds or something,” he said and pointed at the trash, where there were evidently two already empty takeaway boxes piled on top of each other. Thorin whistled.

“So how do you do it? I’d like to know that magic trick.”

Thranduil shrugged, chewed and swallowed before saying: “God bless my genes, I suppose. My dad was tall and spindly, too, and let me tell you he could _drink_. And I don’t mean water, mind you.”

“And how’s his liver?” Thorin asked through a mouthful of rice.

“Dead.”

He coughed and pressed a fist to his chest. Five minutes in this man’s presence and it was killing him already, for heaven’s sake. Was his Arkenstone supposed to do that? Well, looking at his own ancestors this was more than likely, since they had all been killed by or through what was supposed to make them happy.

“What?” he croaked after his fit passed.

“He’s dead,” Thranduil replied, scraping the last bits of rice out of his box. “But it’s not the liver that killed him, don’t worry. Mine is fine as well. Comes from having a doctor as a son. He fears far too much about my health. He’d be the one having a coronary seeing me eat like this.”

Thorin knew he was probably staring at the other man with eyes as big as eggs, but he couldn’t keep himself from doing it. When Thranduil noticed, he set his box down and sighed.

“Sorry, I always prattle and talk morbid things when I’m nervous. Just forget what I said so far,” he said with a pained expression. “Short things short: I like to eat a lot, I also drink a lot, but I’m healthy. A man’s gotta have a guilty pleasure, right? At least I don’t smoke. Legolas would kill me before I could develop lung cancer.” He frowned. “Sorry, morbid things again.”

Thorin chuckled.

“Is Legolas your son? The doctor?” he asked then. Thranduil nodded.

“I’m very proud of him. At least he achieved something, not like his dad.” He grinned a bit joylessly and pointed at himself.

“Oh, speaking of non-achievers …” Thorin mimicked Thranduil’s gesture, pointing at himself.

“Don’t say that. I googled you. Wikipedia says you had a few exhibitions, that’s something.”

“They all flopped though. Didn’t even make profit from the paintings.” He shrugged and chewed a fried piece of sweet-and-sour pork. “Did you know that you have a Wikipedia page, too?”

Thranduil’s eyes widened.

“A good thing I never google myself, then. Many horrible stories?”

“Nah. Just … an overview I guess.” But what he really wanted to say: _Why, should there be any?_

“Mmh. So … Do you usually pick up guys on the street to paint them?” Thranduil asked then.

Thorin shook his head, pondering on whether or not to tell him the whole Arkenstone-story already. After a few seconds he decided against it – such things could scare people off, and he couldn’t tell yet what Thranduil’s reaction might be.

“No. I’ve never done than before. I usually paint urban landscapes or abstract paintings. I mean, I’ve painted people before, of course. But those were mostly portraits for family and friends. Thanks for the food, by the way.”

“You’re welcome.” Thranduil opened the last box – it looked like chop suey – and began to eat.

They ate in silence for a while, Thorin sitting on the armrest of a couch and Thranduil perched on a bar stool. Thorin felt surprisingly comfortable in the other man’s presence, feeling as if – at least for the moment – no words were needed between them. The apartment itself carried a light, open atmosphere, without feeling too cold or impersonal. Thorin saw a few pictures hanging on the wall, mainly of Thranduil with his friends – ha, there was that Haldir-guy! – or together with a younger man, who had to be his son Legolas. They shared the blond hair and blue eyes, and there was just something in their faces that screamed father-and-son, even though they didn’t exactly look alike. Apart from those there was one photograph of a house surrounded by thick forest, but sadly no painted art.

“So, uh, how are we going to do this?” Thranduil asked and threw his empty takeaway box into the trash.

“Well, I have a few ideas, which I would like to sketch … And I brought watercolours, to do some colour study first. You won’t have to be present for the painting process itself, if you don’t want to, though I always like having company for it.”

“No, I think I’d like to stay.”

Thorin smiled and nodded, setting his own box of takeaway aside. He rummaged through his paper bag for a moment and retrieved his new sketchbook.

“Where are you most comfortable?” he asked then.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

“My bed.”

He laughed and absentmindedly twirled a pencil between his fingers.

“Well, I’m not sure if we’re ready for a study from the nude yet, so I’d stay we stick with ‘clothes on’ first.”

“Yeah, that’s okay.” Thranduil grinned, blushing slightly.

Thorin was immediately struck with ideas and set his sketchbook down again, retrieving his watercolours and pencils instead. Seeing the colour on Thranduil’s skin made his fingers itch to study it all. Skin, eyes, hair, mouth, hands, _everything_. He had to go slow at first, though, accommodate Thranduil, make him open up to him, so he filled a plastic cup with water, guided Thranduil to the couch and sat face to face of him on the edge of the coffee table.

“Are you not uncomfortable?” Thranduil asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Oh no, I’m fine. You know, usually I have nothing more than cardboard between me and concrete, so … A wooden coffee table is a great improvement, actually,” he joked and quickly sketched a rough oval shape that was to serve as an place holder for Thranduil’s face before he dipped a medium sized pencil into the water.

“Do I have to … do something?”

“Not really.” Thorin smiled at him, memorizing the pale apricot of his still reddened cheeks that eased into a glowing alabaster on his forehead, chin and nose. “Though it would make it less awkward if we talked.”

“About?”

“Anything you want. This is all about making you comfortable.”

Thranduil made a thoughtful face and sat with his legs crossed.

“What kind of music do you like?” he asked then, sounding sincerely curious.

“Oh …” Thorin glanced at his first study, satisfied with the result, and moved on to painting Thranduil’s hair. While it was certainly blonde, there were many interesting shades hidden among the tresses, from gold to almost silver. It would be hard to capture it properly with watercolours – something more substantial like acryl or oil would be better, or maybe crayons. An interesting thought. He hadn’t drawn anything with crayons in a long time. “Um, I don’t know, Rock probably. I don’t listen to that much music, to be honest. When I was a teenager I was a big fan of AC/DC. And you?”

Thranduil grinned and tilted his head, making the light ripple over the silken strands of his hair.

“I like classical music a lot. Though I also like anything I can dance to.”

He did a fake pout.

“Oh, so no AC/DC then?”

“Mmmh, no, not really.” Oh, there was that blush again, a perfect apricot. What a pity he’d already captured it …

Thorin grabbed his things and shifted to one end of the couch without a warning. He saw Thranduil’s alarmed face and tried to calm him with a reassuring smile.

“This way I get the shadows better,” he explained and drew another oval shape with his pencil. This time he added said shades, carefully sculpting out more of Thranduil’s face rather than concentrating on the colour of his skin. He felt like it was a rather intimate thing to do – it felt like caressing his face with the pencil, gently discovering all the little details and peculiarities that formed him. For a moment he wondered what Thranduil’s skin would feel like under his fingers, and he probably stared at him for a few seconds longer than was appropriate, making his subject blush again.

“What is it?” Thranduil asked softly, apparently intent on conserving the comfortable atmosphere between them. He shifted a bit, bringing his feet out from under his knees, stretching them out sideways and in Thorin’s direction instead. The shadows were altered now, but Thorin cared very little about that.

“Can I touch your nose?” he blurted, now sensing his own cheeks redden. He quickly added a murmured apology, feeling silly; and maybe he even put his own sanity into question. What was he thinking, _oh_ , apparently nothing! He saw Thranduil staring at him with wide eyes, certainly questioning Thorin’s sanity too. Thorin groaned and turned away, hitting his forehead with his sketchbook.


	7. Cyan/Azure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking _and_ touching allowed.

**Cyan/Azure**

“Can I touch your nose?”

For a second he was surprised, of course. A bit suspicious maybe. And slightly offended. It took him a few moments to realise that he had hoped, Thorin would be someone to look past his body and recognise his worth as a person – but apparently that wasn’t the case. How stupid of him. Why should a painter see something else than a pretty face? Anger threatened to gain the upper hand in his mind, and there were already sneering remarks boiling up, ready to shoot, ready to hurt, when he saw Thorin’s face. He looked stricken, embarrassed. Muttered words, like curses, fell from his lips, and he hit his forehead with his book.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin rasped and stood, clutching his utensils to his chest like a shield. “That was stupid. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Something in Thranduil shifted, replacing his disappointment and anger with a far softer, yet unnamed feeling.

“You didn’t offend me,” he replied softly, holding out his hand, as if to pull Thorin back onto the couch. He blinked. “Well, yes, you kind of did, but that’s not the point.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not very eloquent.” Thorin sat again, but avoided touching Thranduil’s still outstretched hand by sitting further away from him. “What I meant is … Well, seeing with the eyes is one thing. But to truly capture a person one needs to know … what is beneath. And touch helps with that. It builds a literal, physical connection.”

Thranduil unconsciously sucked in his breath at that. Maybe his hope wasn’t unfounded after all. Maybe Thorin would see both. Thorin could be that person in his life – apart from Legolas – who knew him in his entirety, inside and out, dark and bright.

“Painting is very intimate, so I’m afraid there will be other requests like that in the future. I will try to formulate them less … blunt, though” Thorin continued, fiddling with a rough patch on his jeans.

“It’s just …” Thranduil hesitated, searching for the right words. “Why? Why would you want to paint me? Why did you follow me? Why are you here? Why do you paint? I would like to understand, Thorin.” _I want to understand you, just as I want you to understand me._

Thorin nodded.

“Of course. There is much to tell, though you may always ask me questions if you are uncomfortable or confused. Sometimes I lose myself in the images that flood my head.” He sighed long and deep, setting his painting utensils onto his knees again, gently going through motions that must be as familiar as walking or breathing. “You asked why. Why you. Well, to properly answer that I also have to answer why I paint.”

Thranduil twisted into a position that was more comfortable and allowed him to look at Thorin at a less awkward angle. He leaned against the backrest of the sofa and crossed his legs, nodding once, when Thorin looked at him questioningly.

“You already know that my father was a painter too, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as was my grandfather, and his father and grandfather before him. Some of my ancestors were more or less famous, they all painted or drew different things, developed different styles.” Thorin dipped his brush into the water, gathered some paint and drew the rough shape of Thranduil’s body in his current position, yoga pants, sweater and all. “What they all had in common though, was a … focus. Something, that made them see more clearly. Something that inspired them and refined their art. Our family calls it the Arkenstone.”

Thranduil hummed.

“You mentioned something like that, yes.”

“One of my ancestors first used that term, because his focus was a jewel he called the Arkensone – a diamond, or an opal, we do not know. It was lost long ago, though its beauty inspired him greatly. And like a gift, the concept of the Arkenstone was passed from father to son. My grandfather’s Arkenstone was heroin. My father’s was the solitude only found in untouched lands.”

“And yours?” Thranduil asked silently, resting his head on the soft cushions of the backrest.

Thorin sighed and set his brush aside to look at his newest little painting.

“I have been looking for mine for many years now. But I think I just recently found it. Him.”

Thranduil blinked, confused at the meaningful look Thorin gave him.

“So it can be a person,” he said slowly.

An almost painful expression flitted over Thorin’s face then, before he sighed and rubbed his face. Suddenly, like a light had been switched on, Thranduil realised the implication and made a shocked noise.

“What, you mean _me_? _I_ am your Arkenstone? But … that’s …”

“I’m not sure yet,” Thorin said and held up his hands, as if to pacify Thranduil. “And it doesn’t actually mean anything to you, so you’re always free to say you don’t want to do this anymore.”

“But doesn’t it mean I am kind of responsible for your art?” Thranduil lifted his head off the backrest and uncertainly hugged himself. “I’m always crap at being responsible, you can’t be serious.”

“No, it doesn’t mean anything like that. An Arkenstone just … heightens a painter’s creativity and focus. I can still work without you, but with you here … special things can happen,” Thorin tried to explain, but even he could tell the man had a hard time putting this into words, and it made him so relatable that Thranduil felt a warm fondness towards him.

“It’s okay,” he reassured him with a soft smile. “I think I understand now.”

“Thanks. For … not freaking out, I suppose.”

“Maybe this Arkenstone-thing affects me after all,” Thranduil mused jokingly. “Maybe I’ll start getting really creative too.”

Thorin chuckled.

“You are already a creative person, just maybe not a conventional one.”

“What do you mean?” Thranduil asked curiously. He’d never considered himself an artist or anything.

“Well, you are a model, right? I’d say modelling is the art of presentation, and it is a kind of performance, like acting. So I think you are creative in some way.”

Thranduil hummed, thoughtful.

“I never counted my job as something that needs creativity. It always came naturally to me.”

“Then you are just incredibly lucky and talented, and also you obviously have the looks to do it,” Thorin insisted.

From someone else Thranduil might have waved this comment off as bootlicking falseness, and he almost reflexively did so with Thorin too, but then he saw the open, honest, almost serious expression on his face and felt his cheeks heat up. Thorin really meant it. He’d just complimented him.

“Uh, thanks,” he replied, but his voice came out several octaves too high.

Thorin tilted his head, still serious.

“One would think you are used to praises, but it seems not.”

If anything, this just blew Thranduil’s head off. That sneaky bastard had flattered him again, but this time so subtly; less than a minute after he barely brought out any words to describe what an Arkenstone was. It took Thranduil a few seconds to gather himself.

“I get a lot of compliments, you are right. But most people don’t mean them, or they are just shallow and boring. I- … I was just surprised to find that you were sincere.” He shot him a shaky smile. “Also I don’t get complimented by men very often, so that’s always exciting.”

Now it was Thorin’s turn to be flabbergasted.

“I didn’t mean it in any way … I mean, I didn’t want to create the expression that I’m … Not that I wouldn’t, of course you’re … It’s not …”

And there was inarticulate Thorin again. It was almost cute how he fought with the words and Thranduil had to forcibly keep himself from giggling – how disgraceful. They both were silent for a second, but then their eyes met and they broke into undignified snorting and laughing anyway. Somehow Thorin’s hands ended up framing Thranduil’s face, and suddenly, like waking from a dream, they sobered up again.

“You know, in the museums they always say ‘look but don’t touch’,” Thorin said tonelessly, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away. “But you’re not an exhibit, you’re a living and breathing person.”

At some point Thranduil realised he was holding his breath and staring into Thorin’s azure eyes, but that didn’t actually matter, because Thorin was looking at him too, and he was very, very close, almost close enough to- … To kiss?

His eyes were closed, but that was insignificant, considering the warm, soft lips that gently pressed against his. A warm sigh fanned his cheek and Thranduil chased it, chasing the warmth that suddenly let him feel at peace, until contact was re-established. But then Thorin was pulling back and cold reality rushed back in, making them both gasp in shock.

“I am … so sorry,” Thorin whispered, tucking his hands firmly under his arms. “That was very unprofessional of me. Just … Please just forget that ever happened.”

Thranduil blinked, still lost somewhere between the peaceful bliss and the cold shock.

“No, of course, it’s okay, already forgotten,” he blurted before his brain caught up with his tongue, and only realised what he’d said as he heard it out loud. They both stared at each other again, taken aback and shaken.

“I, um,” Thorin stammered and cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer. I have some drafts now, maybe … I can come back whenever it suits you to … finish them.”

“Of course,” he replied automatically. “Tomorrow I am meeting my agent, but … the day after?”

“That would be perfect. Same time?”

“Yeah.”

They both got up a bit mechanically, and Thranduil numbly watched as Thorin packed his things. He led him to the door and bit his lip, unsure what to say.

“Until then,” Thorin said with a small nod, but all Thranduil could reply was an embarrassing squeaking sound – words had left him somehow, but thankfully the other man didn’t comment.

He leaned against the closed door, listening for the elevator carrying away the man who had just kissed him. And he had kissed back. And then they had both gone into denial.

Oh fuck.


	8. Anger & Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin contemplates recent events. Dís might be inclined to help. Sometimes children see more clearly than adults. (Stupid adults, making everything so complicated.)

**“Anger”. Oil on canvas – Dís’ apartment, early morning**

**“Regret”. Colour pencils – Dís’ apartment, morning**

What in seven hells’ name had he been thinking? Well, he _hadn’t_ been thinking, that’s right. How could have kissing his Arkenstone ever have sounded like a good idea? Oh, right, it _hadn’t_. Had he just lost his only change of finding his purpose in life? Actually, yes.

Cursing, Thorin splashed the colour onto the perfect, white canvas, choosing the colours and shapes on pure instinct and emotions. So far there was an unsurprising amount of red, and angry, angular spikes and edges … Now he felt like adding black as well, so he haphazardly swished his pencil around. He didn’t care that he was wasting paint and a perfectly good canvas with this tantrum, but it was the only option besides finding a suitable target and punching it until it was completely wrecked or his arms went numb.

“If you could at least keep down your swearing …”

Thorin twisted on his heels, nearly falling over. He felt his anger drain away – of course, it was always more effective to simply talk to Dís, but he hated weighing her down with his worries and problems. So he felt guilt wash over him, as he saw her standing there in her pyjamas, with bedhead and tired wrinkles around her eyes. But she smiled, and Thorin felt tears stinging in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Come here.” She yawned and waved him over to the sofa. He carefully wiped some colour off his hands, though he would need to clean them later with some turpentine anyway.

“What’s the matter?” she asked then.

“Something happened … with Thranduil,” he admitted quietly.

“Did he reject you?”

“No. I mean, he might, after …” Thorin sighed and rubbed his eyes, forgetting that there was still colour on them, and he cursed again.

“Keep it down,” Dís chided. “I won’t let your language rub off on my boys. They’ll grow into it soon enough, they don’t need their uncle to do that just yet.”

“Sorry.”

She crossed her arms and gave him a ‘look’, but Thorin squirmed and scratched his re-growing beard, refusing to say anything.

“I can still look up his number or address and ask him, if that’s easier for you,” Dís said mercilessly. “You know I’d absolutely do something like that. If you make me.”

“Very well,” he grumbled and pulled a face. “I kissed him. There you have it.”

Dís blinked a few times, assessing him.

“And then he threw you out or what?” she asked.

“No, I … It was _wrong_. I could see the disgust on his face, like …” Thorin hesitated. “I destroyed my only chance of keeping my Arkenstone. All my life I wanted to find it – him – and now that I even had him I screwed up.”

“Oh come on, Thorin, I’m sure you’re just exaggerating,” Dís sighed.

“What’s there to exaggerate about a kiss?”

“I didn’t mean the kiss … Maybe you’re overreacting and Thranduil is totally cool about this.” She curved her lips into a small smile. “I bet you ran like a dog with its tail between its legs.”

“I did not,” Thorin proclaimed indignantly.

“Oh, yes, you did. And didn’t even give him a chance to react, as well.”

“Dís …”

“Don’t, Thorin, I know you and yes you screwed up, but only because you made a fool of yourself. Tomorrow …” She looked at her wristwatch. “No, today. Today you go and see him again. Apologise, kiss him again, whatever, I don’t care. Just sort things out, okay?”

“He said he was meeting someone today, but we agreed on meeting tomorrow.”

“See? He can’t be that disgusted if he wants to see you again.” Dís yawned and clapped her hands together. “Now, it’s still very early and I’m going to get a snatch of sleep before dawn.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“No problem, big brother.” She ruffled his hair affectionately and shuffled back into her room, leaving Thorin alone with memories and thoughts that wouldn’t let go of him. But he wasn’t angry anymore – neither at himself nor at anything at all, really – so he fittingly titled the red-and-black painting “Anger”, cleared his oil colours and pencils away and went to sit on the couch again. He was still restless though, so he unpacked his new colour pencils and started to draw in the dim light that seeped through the curtains. Since his thoughts still drifted around Thranduil, circling him and the bright memories he connected with him like starved wolves, it didn’t surprise him that his hand managed to elicit his Arkenstone’s elegant features from the blank paper. The blue and purplish colours he was using, together with the bright green and orange – leaves and blossoms, both withered and lush alike – for the background, gave the drawing a surreal touch. The Thranduil in his picture was looking over his right shoulder with a sorrowful expression, brushing his fingers against dried leaves on his right and yellow flowers to his left.

By the time he’d drawn the simple, dark blue robe he was wearing, the sun’s first rays sent their hesitating fingers into the living room, caressing Thorin’s colour-stained fingers.

“Uncle?”

He looked up from his drawing, realising that both of his nephews were standing right beside him.

“Hey, you two … Already up, wow,” he murmured and held out his arms to draw them nearer. Kíli actually nestled into his side, though Fíli was content with sitting next to him and an arm around his shoulders.

“Is that the man who came to visit you last week?” the younger asked curiously.

“Mom says he’s your Arkenstone,” Fíli added in a questioning tone.

“Yes, and he is.”

“Why does he look so sad?” Kíli’s brown eyes blinked up at him.

“Do you see the … the plants?” _What was, what is and what could have been between us_ , Thorin thought. _He looks back and mourns the future._ “Some of them are withered. And he’s … sad about that.”

“Wi-the-red?”

“Yes, withered. That’s when plants dry up and don’t grow any longer.”

“Why won’t they grow?”

“Someone else …” _Me_. “… did something. And took away their colour.”

“Can’t he do something to heal them?” Fíli asked, brow furrowed. “When our plants have dry leaves, mom gives them fertiliser, and then they bloom again. Can’t he do that? And did he give them enough water and light? We were learning about plants in school, and the teacher said something about photosynthesis … I didn’t understand that yet, but he said it’s important for plants.”

Thorin blinked a few times.

“Well … I suppose.”

“The plants can be healed?” Kíli asked and sat up attentively.

“Then draw another picture, where he’s happy and his garden is blooming,” Fíli demanded and pulled at Thorin’s hands. He smiled and gently kissed his temple.

“Thank you, I think that’s a wonderful idea. But my fingers are tired now, and the plants need some more time to recover.”

The boys quietly watched as he signed on the bottom right corner, put the date and a title – “Regret” – there as well.

“Are you going to make us pancakes now?” Kíli whispered into the fabric of Thorin’s shirt, nuzzling his shoulder with his nose.

“Let’s wait for your mom to wake up. She needs her sleep.” He put a kiss on the top of both boys’ heads. “But why don’t you two help me with finding colours for my Arkenstone’s garden in the meantime?”

The boys cheered quietly, considerate of their mother’s sleep. And when Dís shuffled out of her room an hour or so later, they were still choosing from the large palette of colours, arguing about the different shades and sometimes whining about the impossibility to choose. All the colours were beautiful, and in the end they made Thorin promise to paint flowers in all the colours he had, so his Arkenstone was happy again.


	9. Cream/Crimson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't hide your secrets.

**Cream/Crimson**

He had been back from Paris for almost two weeks now, and his grace period was over. No more lounging around wearing pyjamas or too big sweaters, no more stuffing food like a starved animal, no more … Well, it seemed like there would be no more Thorin either.

Thranduil sighed and fiddled with the strap of his bag, before he rang the bell to his agent’s apartment. Usually he was glad that almost all the people he dealt with job-wise were also his friends, but right now he would have appreciated someone less … perceptive, regarding his thoughts and feelings. His agent, Erestor Roberts, and his partner, Glorfindel Gondolin, had both been his friends since his adolescence. After Glorfindel had a car accident that kept him from continuing being a model, Thranduil hired them to be his agents – with Erestor’s training as a manager and Glorfindel’s contacts inside the world of fashion, they were a perfect team, after all. But it also meant they could see right through him like through a polished window.

The door buzzed and he quickly stepped inside. The elevator took him to the right storey, where he was met with a suspicious eye that glared at him through a small crack between door and frame.

“Password?”

“Fin, you’re an ass,” Thranduil laughed.

“Correct!” someone shouted from the background, and Glorfindel grumbling let him in.

“That was _not_ the correct password,” he complained.

“Hello to you too, tall, blonde and grumpy.” Thranduil snickered, but gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Yes, yes, and you’re tall, blonde and …” Glorfindel hesitated, scanning his face with narrowed eyes. Suddenly, long fingers wrapped around Thranduil’s chin, despite his protests. “… troubled? Fuck’s sake, can’t we leave you alone for a few days? Didn’t Legolas check in on you?”

“Yes, he did.” He tried to pry Glorfindel’s fingers off, but they wouldn’t budge. “Let go of me, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Erestor said and stepped into Thranduil’s field of vision. “Hello, by the way. Oh, and I’m afraid Fin is right, you’re totally off the track – you’ve got knots in your hair, too.”

“What?” he shouted and tried to run his hands through his hair in search of the knots. Dammit, there really were knots, how could he have missed them? Did he walk around like that?

“What got you all riled up like that?” Erestor asked with a concerned frown. “You should have called. You know we can always talk.”

Thranduil finally managed to get Glorfindel’s fingers off him and glowered at both men.

“I came here to discuss dossiers to choose from, not my personal life. _Please_.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want. Follow me.” Erestor shrugged and turned around, ponytail of pitch black hair swaying with the movement.

“There are each nine dossiers from the New Yorker and Londoner Fashion Week – it’s too early for Milan or Paris yet, and I discarded the Berlin ones anyway, I know you don’t like it. Choose at least five designers for New York, and at least three for London.” Erestor showed him two piles of black folders. “I also got you a few offers to bridge the time. Two are photo shootings, three are magazines, and three more are adverts. Choose at least two of those.”

“Don’t forget those two,” Glorfindel added.

“Ah, yes. One is an offer from the New York Fashion Week itself – they would like you to be part of an advertising campaign. Look at it, I think you should consider it. I heard Celebrían already signed her contract. The other one is … not really a dossier, it’s more of a … letter?” Erestor picked up an envelope and handed it to Thranduil.

“From whom?” he asked with a frown, picking at the frayed paper and examining the writing on the front that said _To Thranduil Greenleaf_.

“It’s from Carlos Manzanares.”

Thranduil froze.

“What?”

“Yeah. I took the liberty to peek at it. To, you know, make sure it wasn’t hate-mail or something like that.” Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged a quick glance. “I didn’t know you … befriended him; I would have added him to the list of ‘first priority’ designers. His dossier is somewhere here as well, I think.”

“I didn’t _befriend_ him,” Thranduil said, voice carefully even. He didn’t want his friends to find out just how much of the opposite had happened. The tremor in his hands certainly didn’t come from joy, and neither did the sick feeling he felt cramping in his stomach.

“O-okay, whatever.” Erestor quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want to take them home with you, or can you sort out some of them here already?”

“No, I-I want to take them all home.” He quickly stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his trenchcoat and accepted the thick bundle of folders.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Glorfindel asked from behind him, almost making him jump.

“Sure, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to rush off like that,” Erestor protested weakly when Thranduil hastily turned to leave.

“I, um, I’m meeting Legolas for lunch,” Thranduil lied.

“That’s nice.”

“Okay, bye. See you soon.”

“Yes, see you.” Both of his friends exchanged worried looks that didn’t escape him, though let it slip. He’d been afraid that they would sense his distress over the catastrophe between him and Thorin, but life was never fair, so it just threw Manzanares on top of that stupid mess. He just didn’t have the guts, nor the energy to deal with his friend’s pity or worry right now, so he did what he did best: he fled the scene and hid in his apartment.

His trip through the city fortunately forced him to maintain his composure. From time to time he would scare himself by imagining a familiar brown coat in the periphery of his vision, and sometimes he felt almost claustrophobic – the people were standing too close to him, some even brushed his coat or bumped into his bag, and every single time he jumped and his heart raced uncontrollably by the time he could get off the metro. Only once he’d passed the threshold to his apartment did he feel safe. But that also meant he didn’t have to compose himself anymore, so he didn’t even bother to remove his shoes and coat and simply slumped on the couch.

A cracking sound stirred him, however.

Oh. The letter in his pocket.

Thranduil felt repelled by it – he would have loved to just throw it away, burn it, and scatter it in the wind. But he also knew the … consequences. He’d done it before, he’d ignored one of these messages, and paid a price too high to ever be paid again. No, he had to confront this, he had to confront his past and fears.

Breathing slowly and controlled he pulled the crumpled letter from the pocket of his coat. _To Thranduil Greenleaf_. The handwriting seemed far too beautiful to belong to Manzanares himself, so he overcame himself – _he probably didn’t even touch it, it’s okay,_ he thought – and retrieved a card from the envelope.

 _Dearest Thranduil,_ it read. The ink was dark red and had a strange, coppery hue to it, almost like wine. Or … something else. Bile rose in this throat.

 _We send this message through Carlos, who, as we understand it, is a friend of yours. He has contacted you before, on behalf of us._ Confused, Thranduil turned the envelope again, looking for a sign who might have sent this letter, if it wasn’t Manzanares himself. The letter was signed very strangely – it didn’t look like a name: S.M.A.U.G. But whoever or whatever it was, it felt _bad_. Thranduil felt his hands tremble as he continued to read:

 _We know you have no reason to trust us, therefore we would like to remind you of a few things: Firstly, your debt. You were so naïve and unknowing. But those people you owe, Thranduil? We know them, and_ they _owe_ us _. Imagine what we could tell them. Secondly, if you even think you are safe from us, remember your son, his lovely friend, and now his boyfriend. We know their names. We know where they live. We know how they like their tea or coffee. We know how to hurt them, so it hurts you. Imagine it, Thranduil. And thirdly, we are sure you would not like to see the nephews of your latest friend suffer. They are so young yet, and their minds are so eager to learn. It would be a shame if we had to do something to them. Thorin, too, as so far to fall yet, and if you think he has fallen low enough, we will send him tumbling again._

_You see, it is only beneficial for you to help us. Carlos sends you his best wishes, and hopes to see you soon again. We assume you will sign his contract._

_Do not tell anyone of this letter and get rid of it, permanently. Further instructions will follow._

_We are looking forward to working with you._

_Sincerely,_

_S.M.A.U.G._

 


	10. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin goes to meet Thranduil for the first time after their confusing kiss. What will expect him?

**“Worry”. Colour pencils on paper – Thranduil’s apartment, early afternoon**

Thorin had rung the bell three times already, but still Thranduil wasn’t opening the door. He was starting to get worried. What if something had happened to Thranduil? Or maybe he was still mad at Thorin for kissing him? Whatever it was, it could not be anything good.

“Can I help you?” suddenly came the voice of an elderly man, and Thorin turned on his heels.

“Uh, yes. I’m a friend of Thranduil’s, actually, and, um, we were supposed to meet? But he’s, ah, not opening the door.”

The older man nodded gravely and reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, rummaging around for a few moments, babbling incoherently.

“Where did … I though … It must be … Ah! Here!” He triumphantly held up a key and shuffled past Thorin to open the door to Thranduil’s apartment. “Sometimes he sleeps late … Never hears people knocking and ringing, that man. Ts, ts. There you go.”

“Thank you, Mr. uh, …?”

“Brown. Radagast Brown.” He tipped an imaginary hat and scuffled back into his apartment, whistling like a bird.

Thorin shook his head, but cautiously entered Thranduil’s flat. He remembered the place as light and lofty, creamy colours and an airy atmosphere, and the lived-in feeling of a home. Now he was faced with drawn curtains and lowered blinds. All the lights were out and there were boxes strewn on the floor, spilling over with clothes, trinkets and paper. The air no longer smelled like wood and hints of perfume, but stale and felt too warm on Thorin’s skin.

“Thranduil?” he called into the eerily dark and quiet apartment. “It’s me, Thorin.”

There was no answer, so Thorin uncertainly set his equipment on the floor and went investigating. Maybe he could somehow reconstruct what had happened or where Thranduil could be.

The sink in the kitchen was filled with dirty dishes, and there was a wine glass and an empty bottle of _Cabernet Sauvignon_ standing on the counter.

Thorin uncertainly did another round calling Thranduil’s name, but when no response came he concluded that the other man wasn’t home. Confused he began to arrange his drawing utensils – colour pencils again, paper and some charcoal for sketching – but when he continued to wait alone and it certainly was long past the time they were supposed to meet, he began to worry. And anxiousness led to trembling fingers that craved a pencil to steady them. Reluctantly he chose a dove grey pencil, something soft and unobtrusive. Adding pale blue and darker grey hues he began to draw the blurred border between a stormy sky and a disturbed sea. At the front he placed the rough edge of a cliff, with pale and battered grass growing on sandy ground. Then he did something he very rarely did: he added himself to the drawing.

He was no more than a small dark blue and black blotch sitting on a rock by the precipice, facing off to the side of the paper and it vaguely looked like him, like he looked like his father. His figurine had more similarities with how he must have looked a few weeks back, when he’d worn an unkempt beard and long, matted hair. Drawing-Thorin also wore strange clothing, and all in all it made real-Thorin feel strangely as if he was peering through a window to another place, another him.

While he’d drawn the clouds, the sea and the grass in large, sweeping, imprecise motions, drawing-Thorin carried details real-Thorin added while led by his strange drawing sight, an instinctive and purely creative part of his mind. There was a small trinket in his strong, rough hands, glinting golden and bright. His features, as far as they were visible, resembled real-Thorin’s, but there were grey and white streaks in his beard and long flowing hair. The dark blue coat he was wearing was lined with soft fur, which tousled in the wind coming from the sea.

Thorin – real-Thorin – hesitated with a yellowish-white pencil in his hand. Drawing-Thorin’s gaze was directed at the vast stretch of churning sea, but what reason could he have? Thorin tentatively added a golden glow to the horizon, too small to be the sun, but too bright to simply be the sun’s reflection on the waves. Feeling empty, as if everything essential had been put to paper, he wondered what it might be, and why he – drawing-Thorin – was apparently awaiting it.

Not really knowing why Thorin gave the strange drawing the title “Worry”, and put his name and the date in the bottom right corner and regarded his creation again in the light of its title. Perhaps drawing-Thorin was waiting for his Arkenstone, like him.

Thinking of the devil – or rather his only hope of success, happiness and fulfilment – he heard the door being opened in a rush, and someone entering the apartment with stomping feet, rattling keys and low murmuring.

“Uh, Thranduil?” he called uncertainly. The noise ceased for a moment, before Thranduil came into the living room.

“Thorin?” He blinked owlishly and looked around in confusion. “Why … Who let you in?”

“I came here at the time we said we would meet … But you didn’t open, obviously.” Thorin scratched his re-growing beard. “Your neighbour, the old man, had a key though.”

“Ah.” Thranduil swallowed visibly and shuffled with his feet.

“Um, is it a bad time?” Thorin asked, when nothing else came. “We don’t have to do this now if you don’t want to.”

“No, I …” Thranduil hesitated, wiped his hands on his thighs and approached Thorin with stiff steps. “Actually, I would like to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Thorin blinked and scooted over on the couch to make some space.

The other man let out a trembling breath once he was seated. This close up Thorin could see dark shadows under his eyes and how dry and chapped his lips were. Something seemed to be very, very wrong.

“I don’t know how much I should tell you, or how I should even begin to explain,” Thranduil started quietly. “I’m afraid I will have to go far afield.”

“Go ahead,” Thorin said, trying to sound encouraging and supporting instead of nervous and worried.

“Very well. Um … I’ve never been anything but a model, you know. Even in high school I’d do minor jobs and earn some pocket money. It was what I knew how to do best. It continued until after I graduated from college. But then … Legolas came, and I know,” Thranduil added hastily, “this is probably important too, in some way, but I won’t tell you about his mother today. That’s … Anyway, I needed to earn more money, I needed better job offers, better connections. I did have some friends, and some were getting more and more attention, but it wasn’t enough. So I’d do … less conventional things. This got the attention of some people, who recognised that I was desperate.”

Thorin let out an involuntary growl, but quieted at Thranduil’s sharp glance.

“The point being, they gave me jobs and referred me to really influential people in the fashion industry. One might say I owe them everything I have now – everything _Legolas_ has now. I wouldn’t have been able to afford his medical training, much less get him his own medical practice.” Thranduil sighed heavily. “I haven’t heard from them in … a decade or so. I’d almost forgotten.”

“You heard from them,” Thorin guessed grimly, but Thranduil only laughed bitterly.

“’Hear from them’ is such a nice euphemism for ‘blackmail’.”

Gasping, Thorin balled his hands to fists and went rigid.

“Blackmail? What for?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly what they want,” Thranduil sighed. “But I’m not the only one they threatened. I have to do whatever they ask of me, or you, your sister and your nephews will suffer, as well as my son and his friends. They probably even knew about his _boyfriend_ before I did.”

Grinding his teeth, Thorin carefully took Thranduil’s hands in his.

“Whoever these assholes are, I swear to you …”

“Don’t Thorin,” he murmured and pulled his hands back. “This is … I couldn’t ask this of you and your family. We’ve only known each other for barely two weeks.”

“Look at me,” Thorin said softly. “Thranduil.”

With a heavy sight, those clear blue eyes met his, and he held them sternly.

“You are my Arkenstone. I would do anything for you.”


	11. All the Colours of the Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is here to help, and they will not stand for their friend being blackmailed.

Knowing his friends, Thranduil should not have been surprised that news about this S.M.A.U.G., the blackmailing and threats travelled faster than a bushfire. Despite all warnings and dangers, Erestor arranged a meeting of Thranduil’s friends and family – he called it the “Mirkwood Initiative”, because they would have to act in the shadows and keep this operation a secret. They met under the guise of a workout-session in a room Glorfindel organised for them at a ballet school, whose director used to sponsor him. So far, Erestor, Glorfindel, Celebrían, Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, Elladan and Elrohir were present, all dressed in ridiculous gym clothes. Celeborn’s purple sweatband looked especially hideous.

Thranduil, who wore a simple black sweater and grey sweatpants, arrived together with Legolas and Tauriel, who insisted on helping with the “Mirkwood Initiative” as well.

“I won’t allow some douchebags to destroy your life just ‘cause they feel like it,” Legolas had said sternly, and Tauriel affirmed her participation by simply showing up in her jogging clothes. Her expression would have fit better on a battlefield though. Her bright red hair made her look even fiercer.

“Hey guys,” Thranduil tiredly greeted his friends and waved in lieu of having to kiss and hug every single one of them. He was too exhausted for that, since he hadn’t been able to sleep properly ever since he got that letter.

“Have a seat,” Celebrían said gently and rolled a pink Swiss ball towards him.

“Thanks, Bría.”

“Now we’re just waiting for Thorin and Dís, and then we’ll start the meeting,” Erestor announced, but just at that moment the doors swung open and banged against the walls behind, revealing two figures. Everyone stared in awe at this majestic entrance.

“Oops.”

Thranduil chuckled and bounced on his stability ball, perhaps amused for the first time in days.

“Hi Thorin. Hello Dís.”

“Sit, then we can begin,” Erestor called, and more gym mats were brought out to accommodate the newcomers.

“So, we all are here because of the ‘Mirkwood Initiative’ – a venture to help Thranduil and bring down those S.M.A.U.G. people. By meeting today we all agree never to speak of this to anyone who is not present here.”

“This is essential,” Glorfindel added, placing a hand on his partner’s knee. “Technically Thranduil should not even have told us, since the letter he received stated specifically not to speak of its instructions to anyone.”

“We can’t call the police. They would draw too much attention,” Tauriel chimed in, looking grim.

“Exactly. We’ll have to handle this on our own,” Elrond said, and everyone nodded.

“You have our full support, Thranduil.”

“I thank you all so much,” he sighed at that, feeling a great weight fall off his shoulders. “How do I deserve friends like you?”

“You don’t,” Elladan joked.

“Yeah, we’re just too awesome for you, old man,” his twin Elrohir added.

Thranduil managed a weak laugh and gave them a fond look.

“What exactly is the plan?” he heard Thorin ask from his left.

“We need to have a plan of action that everyone knows and agrees to,” Dís put in. “As detailed as possible, and with plans b and c to act as failsafe. We can’t afford any risks.”

“Okay, first we thought about …”

Erestor and Glorfindel had apparently already thought about a lot, and Celeborn had some nasty ideas as well. Galadriel had some contacts that could help with finding out who S.M.A.U.G. actually was or who was behind it. The details were still rough and would have to be discussed at a later stage, but in the end it boiled down to this: Thranduil would act as bait, and while they all presented an united front, they would close in on Manzanares, who seemed to be an extension of S.M.A.U.G., if not a part of it. They would get as much information out of him as they could before turning him in to the police – depending on how much he liked to talk either for blackmail and stalking or, if they had no hard evidence for that, for sexual harassment. To draw out the rest of S.M.A.U.G., Thorin agreed to organise an art exhibition, at which time they would reveal he knew about S.M.A.U.G. blackmailing Thranduil, daring them to attack him openly. Only then they would fully involve the police, since that was the most dangerous and tricky part. Everyone agreed that in order not to jeopardise Thorin’s life, the authorities would have to be involved at that stage. After that it was in the hands of the police.

Once everyone had consented to this plan they dispersed, each of them laden with ideas, plans and concerns. Thranduil remained behind, as did Erestor, Glorfindel, Thorin and Legolas.

“I am really glad to have you all on my side,” Thranduil said after everyone else had gone.

“That’s what friends are for,” Glorfindel grinned, bouncing on his stability ball.

“The Mirkwood Initiative is a go,” Erestor added.

Legolas, who had been quiet during the whole meeting, wrapped his arms around his father and rested his chin on his head.

“You should have told me.”

“And what good would that have done?” Thranduil sighed, leaning against his son.

“We would not be in this situation. I would have helped you. Now I just feel guilty because you did it for me – to be able to take care of me.” Legolas hugged him a bit tighter. “Thank you. But you should not have.”

“I didn’t do it for you alone,” Thranduil protested quietly, very aware that especially Thorin was listening intently. “I was selfish too. And your mother …”

“She was grateful, you know that. She wouldn’t have been able to … go as comfortably and …” Legolas’ voice cracked, and finally Thranduil stood, hugging his son back.

“I know, darling.”

“I did it for her too, you know,” Legolas sniffed. “My medical training. I wanted to be able to help people, like she did. Help people like her, too.”

“I know. She would be proud of you.” Thranduil pressed a kiss to his son’s hair and met Thorin’s wide-eyed gaze. He knew he would have to explain a lot to him – everything was connected, and it was important that everyone knew the details that had led to this mess they found themselves in now. And he also kind of owed this to Thorin, who had told him all about himself, while Thranduil just kept big parts of his own past to himself. If there was just a chance that their work-relationship could develop into something more, he had to tell Thorin everything.

“Maybe we could all grab a bite or have some coffee together?” he proposed, but it turned out that Legolas had to return to his practice, Erestor had a meeting and Glorfindel already had plans. Which only left him and Thorin.

“Where do you want to go?” Thorin asked as they left the building, holding the door open for him.

“Are you hungry? I’m starving. There’s an Italian place just a block away, what do you say?”

“Sounds good. Lead the way then.”

After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, Thranduil sighed.

“Listen, there’s a lot you need to know still. Would it be okay for you if we … talked about that now? I kind of gathered the courage, and I don’t know whether I’ll lose it soon again.”

“Sure,” Thorin said kindly, wrapping an unsure arm around Thranduil’s shoulders, but once the blonde leaned into the contact he grew more confident and started to rub Thranduil’s arm.

“I was very young when Lauren … that’s Legolas’ mother … when she got pregnant. I mean, she was young too, of course.” Thranduil groaned. “I’m terrible at explaining this. The point is, we weren’t ready. I was only earning very little, and she mostly lived off her parents’ good will – until she got pregnant and they threw her out. She hadn’t even finished college yet.”

Thorin squeezed his shoulders and made a low sound.

“That must have been hard for both of you.”

“And I felt responsible of course. Legolas wasn’t planned, you see. And Lauren was devastated that her family had just shunned her like that – I wanted to do something good, for Lauren and Legolas. So I accepted jobs that were no exactly conventional.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, smuggling mostly. I travel a lot, and with a lot of bags. Hardly anyone would think of properly searching four handbags, a rucksack and five suitcases.”

“Okay.”

Thranduil bit his lip. Did Thorin look a bit paler than before?

“You’re not … disgusted now, are you? I mean, are you disappointed in me? You know what it is like to be on the worse side of things. What it is like to have no real choice.”

“I do. And I don’t condemn you for grasping at straws.” He fell quiet, looking down on his feet, though he held the door to the restaurant open for Thranduil, and the smell of delicious food seemed to calm them both a bit. There weren’t too many other customers, but it wasn’t empty either, so they chose a slightly more private table to sit, and not too much time passed until the waiter came to receive their orders.

“It’s hard to picture you as anything else but the confident, beautiful person you are now,” Thorin said after the waiter had left again.

Thranduil blushed and fiddled with the edge of his place mat.

“I’m not very confident right now,” he sighed, deciding to ignore that second comment except for a flattered smile. “But you are right – I changed quite a bit since that time. It’s been a long time after all.”

The waiter returned with their drinks – soda for Thranduil, and a beer for Thorin – and they clinked glasses.

“To the Mirkwood Initiative,” Thranduil said.

“To your safety,” Thorin murmured earnestly and reached out to squeeze Thranduil’s hand, making him blush again so he hid behind his glass.

“You know, I’m really glad you are here. I’m … I don’t know how to thank you,” he confessed, squeezing back.

“Just promise me to sit for me again. There are many paintings waiting to be painted, and I can’t do it without you.”

“Of course. I promise.”


End file.
